


Got Electric Eyes

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Got Electric Eyes

The Twos are bad sleeper agents. Truth crawls upward toward the light, and that model was made to know things—and the things it does not know, it's made to find out.

The result is that when Twos are sent out, whatever their cover stories, they constantly end up arrested for desecrating temples, fomenting revolutions, arguing with authority, and generally failing to be inconspicuous.

The one she's looking for now burned down a library.

A name and identification borrowed from one of her own sleeper-sisters gets her into the jail's visiting hours. He's lying on his back on the bunk in his cell, staring at the ceiling with the blank, faraway look that for Twos who know themselves means that they're projecting wondrous things. She can't begin to imagine what Twos see, when they open their eyes.

She can't imagine what this one, who thinks his name is Ian Tomari, common laborer from Scorpia, sees either. Probably only the plaster.

The guard unlocks the cell and gives her a skeptical look. "Are you sure? He's dangerous. He set a fire."

"It's fine," she says, and when he opens his mouth to argue again she reaches for her identification badge. It gives her status as a member of an elite human governmental agency—defense or intelligence, something secretive and clandestine and forgiving of deception in the way that will be the human downfall.

The guard leaves and she sits down on the floor, waiting for his attention. She can wait for as long as necessary. As his kind was made to see, hers was made to endure.

"What do you want?" he says finally.

"I've come to take you home," she answers. He won't understand. She can wait.

He turns on the cot, looking at her with curiosity and puzzlement. His eyes are full of confusion, false memories, lies. Suffering that is not his and that she will wipe away as soon as he is ready to permit it. "Who are you?"

She moves toward him, toward the bed, on her knees. His eyes widen and he sits up, facing her, uncertainty mapping to fear in this time when he is not himself. Twos should never feel uncertain, never be afraid. They are closer to the truth than that.

"Who are you?" he repeats, more sharply. She touches his knee softly, wanting to gentle him. This is the way of her kind, to make new truths with their hands.

"You know me," she tells him. He shakes his head.

"I absolutely don't."

They're blank as walls, the sleepers; all their truths kept from them, locked away with keys only given long enough for them to do their tasks and send their messages, then taken away again. Until it's time for them to wake up. Until times like now, when family comes to bring them home.

"I don't know you," he says, more firmly. "I think you should go."

"I can't," she says quietly, sliding his hand higher on his knee. "Think harder. Think back."

"I've never seen you before in my life."

"That's true," she agrees, moving closer, her other hand reaching up to cradle his face. He pulls away before she can do more than brush her fingertips over his skin. "Think back to before your life. This life. Think harder."

"I don't know what you're talking about." His voice is rising, like he's going to shout for help. She doubts it would do any good, but better not to run the risk, and besides, she's getting tired of his resistance and wants him to _listen_.

She slides her hand from his face to the back of his neck, pulling him in roughly, her fingers pressing hard against the tendons. He gasps, hot breath against her mouth, and she kisses him before he can do anything else. She bites his lower lip, then sucks on it slowly before assaulting his mouth with her tongue. She wants him off-balance, uncertain, exposed.

And he _is_ , which is...strangely exciting, because for all that it was her intention, she never expected she would get it. Not from him. Twos are never off-balance or exposed. They live in the eternal serenity of knowing that the truth is waiting for them, if they only have enough patience.

But this one doesn't know who he is. He's a gorgeous blank wall, an emptiness for her to drag her fingers across and leave a projection of wonder behind.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to get to her feet, her hand still tight on his neck. He looks up at her, eyes wide, lips parted, and she straddles his lap easily, her knees tight against his thighs and holding him firmly to the cot.

"What do you _want_ from me?" he whispers, and she has to laugh, she can't help it. She cups his cheek with her free hand, looking into his eyes, looking for the mysteries that she knows are there behind lock and key.

The sleeper programming is too good. There's nothing there at all. She has everything, and he has _nothing_.

It's absolutely intoxicating.

"How interesting," she murmurs, running her fingers over his cheek. He moves with the pressure, turning his face away, and she tightens her grip on the back of his neck. It's experimental more than intentional, but he makes a sound, low and thick in his throat, that sends a jolt of heat through her body.

"Do that again," she says. He looks at her in blank confusion, and this time it's frustration that shoots through her, tinged with anger. She tightens her grip again and shakes him, hard enough that his face turns red as his head jerks back and forth. His hands come up to push at her, fingernails scratching at her arm, but she doesn't have to notice.

He's a helpless thing that doesn't know his own strength right now. And _she does_.

"Frak, _stop_ it," he says, and she laughs, because she doesn't have to, and that's interesting, it's remarkable, it's _fun_.

"You have no idea," she says, shifting against him, grinding down against his lap in slow, fierce rolls of her hips. "None. No idea who you are, who _we_ are, what we're going to do. How all of this is going to change."

"What the frak are you talking about?" he pants. His face is flushed, his head back, eyes closed. She kisses him again, roughly enough that she tastes blood where her teeth cut against his lips. He jerks his head away. "What the frak _are_ you?"

She smiles at him, catching the blood with her thumb and streaking it over his chin. Her thighs are shaking with tension, still gripping tight against his, and heat is building low in her stomach. She's wet under her skirt, where she's pressed against him. "You know me."

"No, I _don't_." His voice cracks, halfway to a shout, and sparks fly up her spine. So close. Power is running through her like God's word, and it's perfect, and suddenly she realizes that keeping it to herself would be a grave wrong, and sharing it, a benediction.

She leans in close to his ear, riding a sharp shudder that runs through him, and whispers. "You do remember. You do. We love you, we always will. Oh, my brother, my darling, my love, _remember_."

When they wake up, when they remember, it's like an explosion.

His whole body jerks, and she takes control one more time, pushing him down on his back on the cot and pinning his shoulders, staring into his eyes. "There you are," she murmurs, and her hips are still moving, she can't help it, she can _see_ the truth coming back to him, awareness of who he is and how much God loves him and the plans that exist for them all. She did this, she gave him back to himself, and the feeling of that is a holy glory.

She bites her lip and lets her head fall back as the slow pulses move through her, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

When she looks down again, he's looking up at her, his face impassive. His eyes, though. They're warm with knowledge, conviction, just the right amount of madness for one of his kind. "You," he says softly.

"Yes," she says. "And you."

He laughs with real affection, and pulls her down against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "How long was I gone?"

"Long enough," she says, kissing him lightly and then carefully disentangling herself. "Absolutely long enough that it's time to go home."

"Did I complete my mission?"

She glances at him, straightening her clothes with careful hands. "No. You got distracted again."

He rakes his hand through his hair and sighs, then shrugs. "We're not very good at this."

"No," she agrees. "You're not. I'm sure they'll send someone else, next time." She smiles. "You're good at other things."

He smiles back and then reaches up to rub the back of his neck, wincing. "You got carried away."

"I was happy to see you." She tucks her hair behind her ears and offers him her hand. She can still taste his blood on her tongue. "We're probably going to have to kill them all to get out."

"That's all right," he says peacefully, and yes, this is right, this is how he should be, all serenity and God's will to wrath in his hands.

She finds she likes the taste of that feeling herself.  



End file.
